


High Note, Low Note

by karanguni



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Rossini/Wagner Struggleboat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 23:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13600755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karanguni/pseuds/karanguni
Summary: To be fair,reads the accompanying message from his sister,I’m not sure the editors of this website know what a tenor even is.





	High Note, Low Note

**Author's Note:**

  * For [categranger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/categranger/gifts).



> Happy Chocolatebox!

When they meet for the first time, it's members of a star-studded charity audience, and so - Richard thinks - it is somehow inevitable that the whole thing spirals out of control and into a spectacle for the masses.

Richard is not even sure how he feels about the fact that there are  _masses_  involved. For all that the history of his profession is one embroiled in politics and revolution, he's long felt that the time for mass adulation of the opera is somewhat past. When he'd studied it in his home conservatory at Hamburg, Richard had had set no sights on any stage nor any ambitions of packing grand theatres: it had been just him and the music, and the way his voice had shaped the notes as much as they had shaped him.

That, however, was then, and this is now. It is seventeen years on, and seventeen years too late to regret stumbling accidentally into the pantheon of this generation's young opera talent. It is something, his agent assures him, about how stridently new singers like himself have stuck to pure stage opera: by eschewing  _bands_  and  _concerts_  and other distractions, they've gained a reputation for being true to an old craft and bringing it - transformed but undiluted - into a new century.

Richard knows, abstractly, that he has  _Twitter hashtags_  named after him, but the fact is blown almost entirely out of his mind as approximately fifty flashbulbs from actual cameras and a hundred more from an sea of cellular phones go off in his face.

Richard feels an arm settle over his shoulder, and there Joakim is plastered by his side and hamming it up for his adoring fans as they stand, trapped, at the head of the red carpet leading up to the New York Metropolitan.

'Smile,' Joakim hisses at him in English, his accent Catalan-rounded. 'They don't smile in Germany?'

'We do not hug people we do not know in Germany,' Richard replies very sensibly, in a matching undertone. 'You are creasing your tuxedo.' On his part, Richard'd chosen a very sensible, very modest suit. They've bent their heads together to avoid being overheard.

Less than five minutes later, after they're released from the photographers in order that they be thrown to the reporters, Richard's phone buzzes. He takes it out: three new messages from his sister, the first of which is a screenshot of Joakim Costa draped over him and smiling underneath a bad-even-for-paparazzi headline in German that reads,  _THE TWO TENORS_.

 _To be fair,_  reads the accompanying message from his sister,  _I'm not sure the editors of this website know what a tenor even is, never mind that you are a bass-baritone. By the way, this has been retweeted like 9 billionty times and I think he snuck a picture of the both of you onto Instagram. Is he as attractive in real life? I didn't know you knew Costa!_

 _I don't,_  Richard texts back, but before he can elaborate Joakim is there  _again_ , tugging at his elbow. Richard's never met someone so capable of invading personal space in his life, and he has worked with no small number of aggressive costume fitters.

'Neidlinger, the reporters want us,' Joakim says, pointing at the camera setup a few metres away. 'If we get the interview done quickly, we can go inside, where there will be others to talk to and maybe you might even loosen up, yes? It's nice to meet you.'

That introduction is so belated that Richard cannot help but laugh. 'It is nice to meet you, too,' he says, and so their first handshake is simulcast to a captive audience worldwide.

* * *

_Excerpt from the New York Times_

Joakim Costa, 34, is more than just something of a media sensation. One look at the man's dedicated online following - a combined two million followers across three social media platforms - and one might be forgiven for mistaking Costa, with his roguish good looks, for a pop star, not an opera singer.

Not just any opera singer, either: in spite of his age, Costa is the genuine article and a rising prince amongst today's lyric tenors. His Rossinian  _bel canto_  repertoire is unmatched.

'You have to be physically fit to be able to sing Rossini,' Russian soprano Olga Peretyatko once said. 'His music is almost athletic. You need an enormous range, and to be totally confident with those top notes and in the low and middle range. It needs to be both tender and strong. I'd say that if you can sing Rossini, you can sing anything.'

Costa certainly fits the bill. Trim and standing at 6'1, Costa's acting melds nuance with a rambunctiousness that belies his age - but not a lack of experience. Watching him on stage, it is not difficult to see why opera has, time and time again, driven audience members to their feet and out onto their streets: one feels invigorated by his performances.

Rock-star-like though Costa may seem, the Catalan tenor is also one of the greatest advocates of his art. He uses his online presence to educate his audience, some of whom once barely knew what opera was. Though posted fairly erratically, Costa's series of videos on the inner workings of the operas he performs in are hugely popular and offer unprecedented glimpses into an inaccessible world.

'I want to show what goes into a production. Not just me and everyone on the stage - though we love to be seen and heard,' Costa explains with a sly smile. 'But also everything else that has to come together, that makes getting up and dressing up and going to see something in person worth it.'

In some ways, Costa is the mirror image of opera's other jewel in the crown: bass-baritone Joakim Neidlinger, 32. Throughout their shared interview at this year's charity gala at the Met, Neidlinger was content to sit back and let Costa do the talking. A quiet, almost mouse-like individual when off the stage, Neidlinger's voice seems almost at odds with the rest of his body and personality.

To underestimate him, however, would be a mistake. Once performing, Neidlinger transforms: there were no signs of reservation in his Alberich from a 2013 production of the Ring Cycle.

'He's a bit of a chameleon,' director Oliver Py said of him. 'A lot of a chameleon, actually. It's what makes Joakim special as an actor and as a singer. During rehearsals, we've had people who don't work with him mistake him for the catering staff when he is not actively practicing. You don't expect someone like that to get up on stage and become someone else completely and blow you away with a voice like that. But Joakim does it. He's quiet, until he's not. And when he's not, there's no looking away.'

Neidlinger neither dismisses the praise nor responds to it. 'I think that is what I have to do, to be a good actor,' he says. 'I try not to let my personality influence the characters. It should be the other way around: I want to be a good canvas so that the characters can stand out.'

It almost seems like a dig at Costa - famous for bringing a certain boyish charm to almost all his performances - but Costa laughs at the suggestion. 'Joakim and I are never on the same stage,' he says. 'So if we are philosophically different, that does not matter!'

It is true, though many of their overlapping fans find that unfortunate. The two have never starred together, and are unlikely to in the foreseeable future. Though age-mates, their circles had not crossed prior to this interview: Neidlinger's repertoire is mostly Wagnerian, and he has shown little desire to cross over into the  _bel canto_  style that is Costa's comfort zone. The same seems true in reverse.

'It's not that Wagner isn't good,' Costa shrugs when asked. 'I'm just not interested. I don't think I'd be able to do it. Something like the Ring Cycle - enormous, so serious! I can't. I'm not German enough, maybe.'

'That does not matter,' Neidlinger interrupts for the first time.

'No,' Costa agrees with a twinkle in his eye. 'But maybe it helps, yes? Here,' the tenor says, scribbling something onto his programme. 'Take my number. If you want to learn some Rossini, give me a call.'

* * *

They don't talk much for the rest of the charity event – not to each other, at least. During the reception that follows the performance, they both get completely swamped by an assortment of friends, acquaintances, and press. Richard keeps half an ear tuned in to Joakim's voice: the man, surprisingly enough, is somehow simultaneously exactly and nothing at all like his reputation. Joakim is loud, yes, and yet not  _entirely_  annoying; bombastic, but not over the top.  _Obnoxious while respectful_  is what Richard comes to think of him, watching Joakim skirt the fine line of being sleazy without ever quite crossing it.

At the end of the night, Richard's about to make his escape - all engagements having been seen to, there is nothing left for his agent to skin him alive for evading - when Joakim invades his personal space one more time.

'A couple of us are going down to Korea Town,' he informs Richard, smiling sunnily. 'Karaoke. You coming?' From over Joakim's shoulder, Richard can see several other singers waving sunnily at them.

Richard blinks, already fascinated at the thought of how  _that_  story will pan out when it inevitably gets spread across the whole of the Internet. Bizarrely, he is almost regretful that he will not get to participate to find out. 'Ah, I'm afraid I have to decline,' he says. When Joakim opens his mouth, Richard holds up one hand. 'Not because I am a wet blanket, even if that may be what you are thinking.' Joakim grins, unrepentant. 'But I have a flight out tomorrow in the early morning: I would rather not miss it for want of being hung over.'

'Do you even know what being  _really_  hung over feels like, Neidlinger?' Joakim asks, but he's smiling. 'Very well then. We shall have to battle it out some other time - have a safe journey, yes?'

Richard finds himself unnecessarily charmed by this. 'Do not blow out your vocal chords,' he advises, and extends his hand out for a handshake.

* * *

At six in the morning while in the cab to the airport, Richard idly searches for  _Costa_  and  _karaoke_  and finds a video of several of his most esteemed and well-known fellow singers belting out  _Bohemian Rhapsody_. Joakim is front and centre, arms slung over two others and resplendently unashamed.

 _We tried to get @R_Neidlinger to come along,_  reads the caption.  _But he chickened out ):_

Richard laughs despite himself, and ends up humming the melody while waiting in line for his flight.

* * *

He does not think about Joakim Costa for weeks afterwards. Richard is busy: he has a production of  _The Flying Dutchman_  that commands his full attention. The cast get through a fair number of early rehearsals before they are finally called in for costuming, and when Richard sees what he is supposed to be wearing, he cannot help raising an eyebrow.

'That is rather…' Richard pauses. Next to him, their designer is clearly trying not to smile. 'Risqué, I believe, might be the right term?' The neckline plunges, precipitously.

Now openly gleeful, the costume designer pats him on the shoulder. 'It's a very modern look, what we're doing.'

'Post-modern, maybe,' murmurs Richard, giving his outfit another solid eyeballing, but then he shrugs and starts to get out of his shirt. 'We had best get on to fitting it, then.'

After a few pins and marks for alterations, Richard looks at himself in the mirror and lets the costume settle onto him. He hums a few lines; sets his weight slightly contrapposto. Then he pulls out his phone and holds it out to the designer.

'Could you take a picture, please?' he asks.

He sends it to Joakim, preferring to keep it out of the public.  _Not so “chicken” as not to premiere this in four months,_  he sends along.

 _Ooh la la,_  comes the reply almost instantly.  _But I think for these kinds of text messages, the shirt needs to dip even lower. Or maybe hang off one shoulder. That would be saucy!_

 _I am not “saucy,”_  Richard sends back.  _After all, I am a baritone._ _I exist to stop_ other _people from being saucy._

* * *

As if in revenge, Joakim - a month later - sends Richard a recording of him singing  _Vieni fra Queste Braccia_  in rehearsal and a message that says  _opening night in two weeks, do you want tickets so you know what all the critics will be making a fuss about?_

To which Richard can only reply,  _I think I already know that you are a magpie: get back to work and be more on tempo next time._

Still, two tickets for  _The Thieving Magpie_  arrive for Richard in the mail a few days later, even though he is nowhere near or able to be in Philadephia, America in a fortnight's time. He gifts them to some friends who are in that area, and does not fail to notice that Joakim does, in fact, steal headlines when it premieres.

* * *

When Richard sings on stage for  _The Flying Dutchman_ , a few months later, one sleeve of his tunic slips off his shoulder during a particularly involved scene. It is in keeping with the mood; Richard sings it from the heart.

Shots of him, thusly a quarter-naked, get reposted very,  _very_  quickly.

When Joakim sends him a message accusing him of flagrant abuses of the wardrobe, Richard sends back  _:)_  and nothing more.

* * *

They continue with their messaging over the rest of the year; a text here from Richard met by a teasing post online by Joakim. When he finds a break in his schedule, Richard even goes to catch one of Joakim's performances - Mozart, for a change.

'You would never catch me watching you do  _Rossini_ ,' he teases Joakim in the dressing rooms after curtain fall: Richard'd been let in, and, mid-season as this date is, there is not too much bustle.

Joakim, midway through washing off his face, looks up. 'And you wouldn't catch  _me_  dead at one of your boring Wagners.'

Richard, leaning against the counter, laughs. It feels hard to believe that this is only their second time meeting, he thinks: but then again, it's equally hard to believe that they have spent eight months on this slow burn. So he dips into his jacket pocket. 'Then I suppose you will not want this?' he asks, holding the voucher redeemable for a cast-member ticket - a single one, not two - out for Joakim. 'Bayreuth Festival. Ring Cycle, twelve months from now. I will be rehearsing till I fall over dead.'

'Till  _you_  fall over dead?' Joakim asks, clearly appalled as he stares at the tickets. 'I know I'm in this business, my dear, but  _I_  have not got the sort of- of- of  _stamina_  it takes to survive… how many hours is it all?'

'Oh, somewhere around fourteen, all told, I think,' Richard says, unable to stop himself from smiling faintly. While Joakim pantomimes horror, Richard crosses his arms over his chest. 'I did not think you, of all people, would be lacking in  _stamina_ , though.'

Joakim opens his mouth, then shuts it again. 'I could have phrased that better,' he says, staring at the ticket in his hand, and then he sighs. 'At least I have one year to think about it, yes? Whether I want to do something so crazy as to go to Switzerland and be bored out of my mind watching you chase a fire-breathing piece of metal across — oh, no, you won't be Siegfried, nevermind. We barely know each other, Neidlinger,' Joakim says, but it is a tease.

Richard shrugs a shoulder, still smiling. 'That is true. You could do better.'

' _I_  could do better?' Joakim's eyebrows are raised.

Richard pushes off from the dresser and heads for the door. 'Yes. You could get changed - and then show me somewhere around here that does a good supper.'

* * *

Joakim treats him to an excellent dinner and an equally-excellent visit to his bedroom, but, truth be told, Richard has no idea where any of this will be in a year. He stays for two more days, glad to find that the welcome is immediately extended, but flies out afterwards to return to a busy schedule. Their lives rarely intersect, and demand for their talents is on the rise: they are both of them so busy that Richard wonders if it may not be better keeping as few strings attached as possible.

Still, they continue to talk. And, as the months creep by, they find themselves capable of stealing moments here and there: a drop-in visit to one or the other's hometown-of-the-month, a fly-by vacation with a hotel room they possibly should not be spending the kind of money they do on. It could, possibly, all mean nothing.

But, Richard thinks to himself as he steps on stage at Bayreuth a year later as Wotan the Wanderer, always wandering: maybe it could mean  _something_.

 _Siegfried_  takes so much out of him that Richard barely registers going backstage and changing out and turning back into a human being, into  _himself_  again.

By the time he thinks to even look at his phone, it's two hours later. Richard sees a few missed calls, but it is the singular text message that catches his eye: a picture of Joakim, a ridiculous hat on his head and sunglasses on and a scarf about his neck, standing outside the eminently recognisable theatre.

 _If anyone catches the fact that I, Joakim Costa, have been standing outside this shrine to all things Wagner for the last one hour,_  the message reads.  _I will die of shame._

Richard rings him at once.

'Hello,' Joakim says, picking up just as quickly. 'Have you ever been told that you are hard to get?'

'Hello,' Richard replies, smile fairly near splitting his face. 'I cannot say that I have.'

'Then you might tell me that I do not have to sit through the  _rest_  of the cycle,' Joakim says.

'Oh no,' Richard says, legs eating up the distance between the dressing room and the public entranceway. 'Because I have never been told that I am  _easy_ , either.'

Richard pushes his way outside the building and finds Joakim there, still in hat and scarf and glasses. He puts down.

'One tenor delivery,' Joakim says, pulling his sunglasses away and looking Richard up and down. 'Or is that one baritone?'

'Who cares,' Richard says, because sometime and somewhen, their game of casual one-upmanship had stopped mattering. He closes the last gap between them, and when he leans in to kiss Joakim, Joakim meets him halfway.

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me, for I have sinned the sin of many awful references, including abusing Rossini and Wagner's first names. And a lot of names in general :D


End file.
